


Of All Forces

by x_art



Category: Supernatural, The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Mentions of Sam/Ruby - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-01 20:00:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12711939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art
Summary: Crossovers don't generally work for me but I wanted to give this a go as there are a few elements from each show that seemed to blend. I messed around with the episode timing—the Supernatural bits are set in season 4 while The Exorcist bits are set between season 1 and 2. There is such a place as the Halo Diner and I pushed the envelope on the national popularity of sweet potato fries.The translations are: "No finjas que no quieres esto"—rough translation: "Don’t pretend you don’t want this." The other is The Lord's Prayer in Spanish.This unbeta'd story is my first attempt at an omniscient POV—I'll doubt I'll try it again as it's crazy hard.The title is from a quote by Octavio Paz that I really love: "If we are a metaphor of the universe, the human couple is the metaphor par excellence, the point of intersection of all forces and the seed of all forms."





	Of All Forces

Of All Forces

 

 

 

______________________

 

Converge ~ Tomas

 

 

_‘He is coming.’_

_The words echo again and Tomas strains to hear them, his heart stuttering, his breath still._

_‘He is coming.’_

_More of the same only now Tomas can’t move, trapped in this place of shadowed sunlight. Dust motes drift here and there, and hay crunches on cement as a figure comes nearer. He’s terrified and he opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out; he grips his own throat, needing to forc—_

_A wrench and he’s standing in the night time parking lot of a convenience store. At least it was a convenience story parking lot—now it’s a chaos of overturned cars and spilled gasoline. Once more he tries to call out, once more he can’t. A light flashes bright and he starts to turn around but before he can, someone is pressed against his back. It’s a man, much bigger, and he curls around Tomas like a lover. His hand slips over Tomas’s._

_Gasping now, choking, Tomas hunches but the man follows, muttering love words in Spanish and then a soft, lewd,_ ‘No finjas que no quieres esto.’

_With a snarl, Tomas breaks free. He turns. It’s not a giant standing behind him nor is it Marcus because the dream has taken that path more than a few times. It’s simply a man, fair-haired, slim, and dressed in normal American clothes. He stands in a puddle of spilled oil, surrounded by the bodies of dead crows._

_The man smirks and raises his arms. In a lifeless parody, the dead crows open their beaks and raise their wings._ ‘I think,’ the man says, ‘the phrase you’re looking for is, ‘He is ris—’

_Tomas gestures in repudiation closes his eyes. He searches for the prayer because he knows what this is, knows what is standing before him and it’s_ not _possible._ ‘Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo. Santificado sea tu nombre. Venga tu reino. Hágase tu voluntad en la tierra…’

_He hasn’t finished before the demon king joins in with a yip of a laugh and a fond, ‘Oh, Tomas…’_

***

The sun was high when Marcus pulled up to the service station’s only pump. Tomas leaned forward to read the tall sign, squinting against the glare. “‘U Pump ‘Em,’” he muttered.

As always, Marcus knew what he was thinking and grinned as he reached for his wallet. “Americans aren’t very subtle, are they?”

Tomas shook his head. They’d been on the road since eight and he was tired and achy from sitting in the very uncomfortable station wagon for too long. “Is it a word, do you think?” he murmured, still staring up at the sign.

Marcus was half way out of the car but he paused. “Is what a word?”

“‘Achy?’ Is that a word in English?”

“I have no idea. Probably. If Americans can make a verb out of ‘party’ they can make an adjective out of any other noun.”

Tomas sat back. Marcus had taken off his jacket and in his t-shirt and jeans he looked the same as everyone else. He fit into Tomas’s country more than Tomas ever had. Maybe it was a race thing, maybe it was Marcus’s ability to blend in and subsume his own self. Whatever and however, Marcus seemed more American than Tomas; it shouldn’t matter but it did.

“All right?” Marcus asked, his voice suddenly soft.

“I’m fine.”

“You had another dream last night, didn’t you?”

Suddenly hot under the cool March sun, Tomas shook his head again. “I’m fine,” he repeated, knowing it for a mistake the minute the words left his lips.

Marcus shifted his weight. “That’s not what I asked, which means you did and you’re not.”

“It was nothing,” Tomas said, this time with a smile meant to fend off questions because Marcus was like a dog—once he got that bone, he never gave it up.

But for once Marcus didn’t push or prod; he just nodded slowly and raised his wallet. “Can I get you anything?”

“Just water, please.”

“Water it is.”

Tomas watched as Marcus went into the small shop. The clerk got up and in a minute, the two men were leaning on the counter, chatting each other up.

‘Chat up.’ It was a phrase he’d recently learned from Marcus, an informal expression implying courtship or at the very least, flirting. Marcus chatted up everyone he met. He’d get that gleam in his eye as if the person he was facing was the most interesting thing in the world; soon he was plying them with questions, his voice seductive and charming. Bound by the knowledge that his own very south-of-the-border accent roused suspicion, Tomas always held back, observing, but not engaging.

He’d never been what one would call a wallflower. Hindsight being everything, he understood now that he wouldn’t have risen through the ranks of the Church so quickly if he hadn’t wielded his God-given gifts to carve his path. Now, with just his collar as a shield, he felt at times exposed and vulnerable, which was ridicul—

“Hey.”

He jumped. Marcus had come around the back of car and was leaning in. “ _Jesu…”_ Tomas swore. “Don’t _do_ that.” The store clerk had come out, too, and contrary to what the sign stated, was filling up the car with gas.

Still smiling quizzically, Marcus held out a bottle of water. “Sorry. I thought you saw me. What’s got you so nervy?”

Tomas took the bottle. “I’m not… I am only… I mean, I was just thinking.”

“Hm, mm,” Marcus said disbelief coloring his words and his bland smile. “Well, while you were _thinking,_ I’ve been talking with Stewart, here.” Another quick smile, this one for the clerk, as he raised his voice, “And he tells me there was an incident recently not far from here.”

“A few months back, I said,” Stewart interjected without looking up. “In January.”

“‘A few months back,’” Marcus confirmed. “In January.” His expression grew somber and he added quietly, “Several children died from what appears to have been a possession.”

“And?” Tomas said.

“And I was thinking we should take a look.”

“I thought Bennett wanted us to go to New Mexico.”

Marcus tapped the car door with his thumbs. “He said it was a possible possession, not a sure fire deal. Besides, it’s not that far away.”

“And an event that is month’s old interests you more than Albuquerque?” Tomas sighed even though he was quite happy not to go to New Mexico. He’d heard stories about the state’s sheriff departments and patrols—the last thing he needed was incarceration because of the color of his skin. “How far is not far?”

“Stewart?” Marcus called out, his gaze not leaving Tomas’s. “Where did you say the murders took place?”

Stewart screwed the gas cap on and put the nozzle back. “It was _murder_ as in one, and I didn’t. But it was in Fairfax, Indiana, about three hours northwest of here depending on how fast you drive and if this piece of junk…” He nodded to the car. “…can last that long.”

“Three hours northwest,” Marcus said, his gaze too hopeful.

Tomas sighed. Marcus didn’t need his permission—they both knew who was running the show. But three hours meant they most likely would stay the night and that presented its own set of problems. “And Bennett?”

“He’s sending us out because he doesn’t know what else to do. After the fiasco in Harrisburg he’s just trying to make good.”

The ‘fiasco,’ as Marcus called it, had been their first official case as a team and was nothing more than a local priest trying to drum up business for his church, using Tomas’s newfound fame as bait. Tomas had wanted to take the case; Marcus had not. It had been humiliating once Tomas had discovered the boy they were trying to save had been a prop for donations. Marcus, however, had known something was fishy from the start and it was that that made Tomas nod slowly and say, “I go where you go.”

“Thanks, Ruth,” Marcus said with a wink and a pat on the car door. He straightened up again and said to the clerk, “Stewart, if we come back this way, I’m gonna try that pub you mentioned.”

“It’s a bar, not a pub,” Stewart replied sourly. “Holy Moses, don’t you ever listen?”

“Not if I can possibly help it.”

Even through the dirty windshield, Tomas could see Marcus’s bright grin.

***

“Don’t say it,” Marcus muttered as they left the Fairfax police station.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Tomas answered, a half lie because he very much wanted to say, _‘I told you so.’_ “Besides,” he added, feeling magnanimous, “we did find out a few things. Possession by a ghost is something.”

“It wasn’t a ghost; it was a demon.”

“Everyone seemed fairly certain it was a ghost,” Tomas said. It was almost five and the sun was falling, streaking the streets with gold, making the shadows blue. “They all saw the same thing.”

“They saw what they wanted to see.” Marcus glanced around. “Folie à deux, mass hysteria—call it what you will but when everyone sees the same thing, it’s generally because they _want_ to see the same thing. There are no such things as ghosts.”

“There are such things. The holy ghost, for example.”

“Tomas.”

“Then what did those two men _do_? Did that bus full of football players imagine them?”

Marcus rounded on Tomas, his head cocked. “Yeah, and what about them? They’re not priests or we would have heard.”

“Maybe they are—what is the word?” Tomas frowned, searching his memory. “Free lancers? Maybe they are free lancers.” One of the boys on the bus had taken a photo of the exorcism. It wasn’t the best of images but it showed two men in non-secular clothing. The shorter of the two was turned away but the other was not; the flash of the camera had caught his pupils, making them glow white.

“It’s ‘freelancer,’ single word, single meaning,” Marcus answered with a raised eyebrow. “Freelance exorcist. Is that the best you can do?”

That was it. Weeks of nothing followed by the disappointment in Harrisburg, the long trip south and then back north and finally this failure—interviewing a group of people that didn’t want to be interviewed and then being shown the door by a police chief that was patronizing and rude. “I’m not doing _any_ thing, Marcus,” Tomas said, stepping in close, using his bulk and anger to make his point. “I’m following you, I’m following Bennett. I’m following —”

He broke off and ran his fingers through his hair. His elbow hit Marcus’s chest and he wanted to do it again only harder. Jab at Marcus and make him feel the same sense of confusion and disorientation… “Maybe this was a mistake. All these months and we’ve accomplished nothing.”

“You’re too impatient,” Marcus said evenly. “It’s your defining flaw.”

He clenched his fists. “And yours is arrogance.” It would be so easy to take this further, to lash out—Marcus was waiting for it and the moment stretched on and on, and then like providence, a car door slammed and Tomas remembered where they were. He retreated and looked around. They’d gathered only a few bystanders but that few was enough. “What now?”

“I suppose I should say we should get in the car and go to New Mexico,” Marcus replied. “But I’m tired and I want a shower, dinner, and a proper bed.”

Damn it.

“There’s that place at the end of Main Street.”

“All right.”

Marcus got out his keys. “Shall we be off?”

Tomas glanced down the street. “You go ahead. I think I’ll walk.” He smiled, trying to make it seem like the thing it was not. “I need the exercise.”

“If you’re not there by six, I’m off to dinner without you.”

“I’ll be there.”

***

Tomas nodded to the passersby, only barely meeting their gazes. It was five or six blocks to the motel. If he went slowly, maybe Marcus would be gone by the time he got there.

It had become a problem, this checking into motels together, this sharing a room. Never mind the worry that their falsified credentials wouldn’t pass inspection, there was the sly glances at the reception desk when Marcus asked, ‘ _What’s cheapest, a king or two queens?_ ’ the awkward side-to-side when they entered the room because no matter what the place purported to be, it was essentially a bedroom. A bedroom that offered little privacy and too much intimacy. Tomas liked it better when they continued on through the nights, the one driving while the other slept. The close confines of the car meant intimacy of another kind, but it was less dangerous, out in the open as it were.

But, he reminded himself once more, he could do this. He was on a mission and that had to be more important than his recent discovery that he was on a journey of another kind.

***

Unfortunately, Marcus was not gone to dinner—he was sitting at a tiny table, reading a colorful advertising brochure. He waved the brochure when Tomas stepped through the door.

“We’re in luck,” Marcus said. “The world’s largest ball of paint is only a few miles away. It weighs over two tons.”

“Two tons?” His suitcase was on the bed closest to the bathroom because, for whatever reason, Marcus always preferred to sleep nearest the door. “That is more than some cars.”

“It is,” Marcus agreed cheerfully. “It’s made up of thin layers of paint. I want to see it.”

“We’re not on holiday, Marcus.”

Marcus tossed the brochure down on the table and stood up. He stretched and yawned. “Yeah, but wouldn’t you like to check it out? The _world’s_ largest ball of paint? Not just Indiana’s or the region’s, but the _world’s._ ” His smile faded. “Let’s do something fun, Tomas. It’s been a frustrating few months.”

Like before, Tomas couldn’t do it, couldn’t be the disciplinarian. The Rance exorcism, the worry that the church had been corrupted at the highest levels, leaving his beloved parish and parishioners… And then there was Marcus’s excommunication because no matter what Marcus said, that had to have cut like a knife. “All right,” he said, “but tomorrow not today. I want to wash up and eat something.”

Marcus waved the brochure once more. “Just as well—they’re closing in twelve minutes.”

***

The town had limited choices when it came to restaurants and they ended up at a place called The Halo Diner. Marcus snickered about the name while he perused the menu, muttering under his breath that he doubted any of the employees or patrons had ever come near a real halo.

Tomas replied that the two of them were far from saints. Marcus just kicked Tomas’s leg under the table like a five year-old and said ‘ _Speak for yourself’_ and ‘ _I’m gonna order the BLT.’_

***

They were in bed by nine. Marcus, as always, dropped off as soon as he closed his eyes but Tomas—also as always—couldn’t sleep.

The room was clean enough but smelled of disinfectant and exhaust; the motel sign was too bright and the fluorescent tubes were old. They blinked on and off every so often, a staggered rhythm that kept him on edge. After twenty minutes of it, fingers loosely curved around the edge of the sheet, his breath slow because the sign’s off period was much longer this time, Tomas drew a deep breath and made his hands relax. He turned on his side.

Marcus was just a dark silhouette. He’d stripped down to shorts and undershirt, and Tomas could just make out the arc of his shoulder under the sheet. Marcus was so thin, as if life had pared him down to the essentials: bone, muscles, soul. Or maybe it was a lifetime of exorcisms—had they burned the excess out of Marcus? Would he end up the same? Worn and weary, looking out at the world with vigilant eyes that couldn’t quite mask the hope?

Tomas pressed his hand flat against his chest. He didn’t want to end up like that. He wanted to embrace the things that made life worth living: family, God, the Church.

_And love_ , he thought, shifting under the covers but cautiously, like a thief slipping into a heavily guarded house. He’d known the trinity of love: the mundane, the profane and the sacred. He didn’t want to forget any of it, and that, as they said, was the rub.

Many weeks ago, back when they’d first started out on their travels, they’d stopped for dinner in a cafe outside Pittsburgh. Marcus had gotten word from Bennett of a possession near Harrisburg and were waiting on details. They were for the time, as Marcus had called it, wanderers.

The conversation started off as a lecture from Marcus on the benefit of lying by sticking to the truth whenever possible. It moved on to the history of exorcisms until Marcus mentioned something about celibacy. He’d smilingly said it was good in the abstract but bollocks in reality and the Church would do better to dispense with it altogether. Tomas had replied that celibacy was necessary as a protection against sin. Marcus had raised an eyebrow, laughed out loud and said, _‘You’ve got to be kidding.’_

They’d argued long into the evening on the nature of sin and though they solved nothing, a fissure had developed in Tomas’s certainty. He was no longer sure of what he believed. His affair with Jessica—if so brief an event could be called that—had been the first hammer strike. His growing attraction to Marcus would likely be the killing blow because he could no longer deny it. He wanted Marcus. He wanted to burrow under the covers and press up close, diving in, sinking deep into Marcus’s body and belief, making both his own.

He, of course, had prayed. Broad spans of time spent asking God’s guidance and forgiveness. He, of course, hadn’t received a reply. He hadn’t truly expected one because prayer wasn’t enough. God required one to fix one’s own problems; he’d preached that very idea more than a few times.

It was just…

It was just that it had become something he thought about, the desire to lay hands on whatever part of Marcus was within reach, the need to say a childish, _‘Forget them, look at_ me _.’_ He pushed such thoughts out of his mind as soon as they formed but it was no use. They were strong and cunning, the desires, creeping in when his guard was down. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he had the sneaking and painful suspicion that Marcus knew everything.

He imagined it, Marcus watching from the sideline as he fought this silent battle, knowing the outcome but not offering any leeway or help. Maybe this had happened to Marcus before. The Catholic community being what it was, it probably _had_ and Tomas could almost hear the conversation, his own carefully worded offer and Marcus’s gentle rejection because Marcus would no doubt be kind.

A chill skittered across Tomas’s shoulders—he could bear a lot of things, but not pity.

As if he agreed, Marcus made a sound in his sleep, a near-silent mutter of incomprehensible words.

Tomas froze and waited for more, but Marcus settled on his back and sighed deeply.

Wondering if Marcus was chasing his own demons, Tomas firmly closed his eyes and willed sleep.

***

He dreamed again that night but it was a shallow, slip of a dream. When he woke, it was day and Marcus was humming low under his breath as he brushed his teeth. The dream fled even as Tomas tried to recapture it, leaving only a faint memory of a deep voice whispering in his ear and a heavy hand on his shoulder.

***

As it happened, they never got to see the world’s largest ball of paint. They were almost done with breakfast, both reading different parts of the Fairfax Gazette, when Marcus pushed his section of the paper Tomas’s way.

It wasn’t hard to find the article that had interested Marcus—the sensational headline took up most of the page: “ _Eight People Die at the Same Time in Small Wyoming Town. Authorities Stunned_.”

“So.” Tomas raised his head. “I suppose we are going to Wyoming?”

“We’re going to Wyoming.”

***

It started to snow before they’d crossed the Indiana-Illinois state line. The car, as Stewart the gasman had predicted, broke down soon after. They limped into Champaign, a city not near as lovely as the drink, and haggled a dealer into trading the wagon for a newer model sedan that needed work, but not as much as the wagon.

They were back on the road two days later and three hundred dollars poorer.

 

 

Concur ~ Sam

 

From his corner, Sam shifted restlessly. He should be used to it by now, the silence that filled the car like sludge. Or like an invisible wall, keeping Dean on his side of the car and Sam on his. When he was young, in the back seat because Dad was at the wheel and Dean had shotgun, the silence had been a welcome barrier. He’d sit in Dad’s blind spot and imagine it was just Dean and him, no father who he loved but didn’t understand, no expectations, no orders. No monsters.

He’d been such an idiot, but that was hindsight for you.

“You hungry?”

He looked over. Dean’s face was healing from his bout with Uriel and Alistair, though he still had a butterfly bandage on his temple that covered a stitched cut and a bruise. That one tiny sign indicating trauma without disfigurement—it made Dean look like something from those romance novels that Jess had loved so much. “I could eat.”

“There’s that place on the outskirts of Lincoln.”

“Which one—the dive on Wildcat or the bar off Fletcher?”

“The bar off Fletcher.”

“I got sick there, Dean. Twice.”

“That was a million years ago, Sam,” Dean said. “I’m sure they changed the menu.” He shrugged. “Hell, they probably changed the name.”

“That didn’t mean they changed suppliers or cooks.”

Dean’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, telling Sam what he thought of that comment. Beyond that, he said nothing and that was so typical. And business as usual because no matter what Dean always said, he was worse than Sam when it came to secrets and hiding. Dean always presented himself with figurative arms wide, you get what you see and here’s the smile to prove it. In the beginning, Sam had taken it as fact that Dean believed his own lies. Now, he knew better and his stomach knotted up because how they could find and kill Lilith with this between them? He’d insisted on honesty and Dean had finally agreed, but really, was there any way they could work together if one of them was lying?

Well, both of them, he admitted silently, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

“So the dive on Wildcat?” Dean asked.

Surprised at the small concession, Sam nodded. “Sure, that’ll be great.”

***

The dive turned out to not be a dive anymore but neither of them said anything as they took their seats.

“I just know they’re gonna have sweet potato fries,” Dean muttered as he glanced around.

Sam followed his gaze and then smiled, ‘ _Thank you’_ as a waitress brought them two menus. For all it was eight on a Wednesday, the place was packed, mostly with couples. “Have you ever tried them?”

“Like I’m gonna eat the fried version of something I hate.”

“They’re good.”

“When did you have sweet potato fries?”

Sam shrugged. The menu was one of those multi-page things with photos of food that all looked the same. At least there were more than two kinds of salads. “Last year. When I was in New Orleans.”

Dean twisted his lips in obvious sarcasm. “When were you in—” His expression changed. “Oh, yeah, that.”

_Oh, yeah, that,_ Sam thought with equally bitterness. That. The year spent hunting for a way to bring Dean back from hell, focused and intent but in a fugue state of grief that colored everything in the same shade of grey. Now, nine months later, the pain was dull and round-edged, but it wasn’t because of that ‘time heals all wounds,’ bullshit. It because he was trying to forget. It was because of Ruby…

“Sorry,” Dean said gruffly.

Sam shrugged and set the menu down. “It’s okay.”

And it was, sorta, because when the waitress came by to take their order, Dean asked for, _‘Cheeseburger with everything and sweet potato fries’_ with only a hint of hesitation.

***

They broke pattern again when they got back in the car. Instead of heading towards 34, Dean turned down O Street. “Where are we going?” Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. “Figured we’re both tired and since we’ve got nowhere to be…”

Before—when they were the before of them—the knowledge that it was just a matter of time before they were gonna be alone would set up a curl of sleepy lust in Sam’s belly. But that was before and he just nodded evenly. “Okay.”

***

The Roadview Inn was no real inn and lacked anything like a view. Unless you counted the blank stretch of O Street and a fallow field that went on for miles.

The man at the desk gave them the usual skeptical raised eyebrow when Dean asked for, ‘ _Two queens,’_ and _‘Do you have an ice machine cause I’m dying for a drink_.’

Sam went back outside to check his messages, ignoring the man’s muted sneer and the fact that Dean was probably gonna drink himself to sleep again. Homophobes could go screw themselves and though he hated how much Dean drank, there was nothing he could do about it. Just as he couldn’t do much about Ruby—she still hadn’t called.

The room was like every other room they’d ever stayed in. Two beds covered by ugly floral print bedspreads, unfortunate art on the walls and a dresser that looked on its last legs. Unlike every other room they’d ever stayed in, there was a fancy, flat-paneled TV chained to the dresser.

Dean immediately turned on the TV. He thumbed through the static, finally finding two relatively clear channels. “Hunting or news?”

In the middle of searching for his shaving kit, Sam answered, “Do you have to ask?”

“Hunting it is.” Dean tossed the remote on Sam’s bed. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

Sam picked up the remote and scrolled through until he found the news channel. “Don’t use all the hot water.”

“You’re the one that takes twenty-minutes, bucko.”

_Relax, don’t engage, he’s just waiting for it,_ Sam told himself and after a moment, his shoulders dropped.

Dean smirked and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

_‘Don’t bother—I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole!’_ Sam wanted to call through the cheap wooden door but didn’t. The way things were between them, it would be stupid to throw a challenge that Dean might be forced to accept. He was fairly certain he could fend off his own desire but if Dean showed any vulnerability, there was a good chance he’d cave. As angels and demons had pointed out over the years, they were each other’s weakness. Dean just needed to stay on the right side of bitchiness and Sam would be okay.

And that was well and good but when Dean came out of the bathroom with just a towel wrapped around his hips, all slick-skin and smelling like Ivory, Sam had to look down, pretending his bootlaces were more knotted than they were.

“All yours,” Dean said.

Sam toed off his boots and got to his feet. “Thanks.” He picked up his kit.

“I’m almost out of booze. I’m gonna go to that liquor store we passed a ways back.”

“Good.” The towel was minimal; the words ‘Roadview Inn’ were woven into the material down the front. Just like towels from a fancy hotel so maybe this place had been a going concern once upon a time.

“I’ll be back by nine. You want anything?” Dean asked.

“No,” Sam said, holding his kit to his chest like it was a shield. Or a charm. He edged around Dean and went into the bathroom. The tile floor was warm and damp.

“You okay?”

Sam didn’t look around when he answered. “Yeah. I’m fine,” and then closed the bathroom door. He listened but heard nothing. After a moment he began to strip and was almost done when he paused. He turned on the bathtub faucet and then, cautiously and quietly, locked the bathroom door.

***

Sam was half asleep when Dean returned. At least he assumed it was Dean because it was almost midnight and that meant Dean had found a bar instead of the liquor store. “That you?” he mumbled.

“Yeah, it’s me.” There was a long pause. “Go back to sleep, Sammy.”

Without answering, Sam turned on his side and buried his face in the pillow. He didn’t drop off right away, but listened to his brother stumble about as he wondered sleepily, _‘Where the hell is Ruby?’_

***

Daylight brought bland morning and the scent of burned coffee. Sam swiped his hair out of his eyes and sat up. Dean was sitting at the end of his bed, reading the paper and drinking coffee out of a styrofoam cup. On the dresser was another cup. “Morning,” Sam said.

“Hm,” Dean answered without turning around.

“Did you get any sleep?” It was just past six-thirty.

“Slept like a baby,” Dean said cheerfully. “Unlike you.”

Sam scrubbed at his jaw. “I slept fine. I didn’t even dream.”

“Then it must have been another Sam in that bed ‘cause you were tossing and turning like all of Hell’s demons were after you.” Dean looked over his shoulder. “They weren’t, were they?

“I didn’t dream,” Sam insisted. And then he sighed because it was too early for an argument. He threw back the covers and changed the subject, “It’s cold.”

“That’s because it snowed, brainiac. There’s six inches out there. The roads are as icy as hell.”

“That gonna be a problem?”

Dean went back to his newspaper. “Never been before, princess.”

So it looked like six-thirty in the a.m. _wasn’t_ too early to get into it and Sam stood up. His anger died as quickly as it had come. In the non-literal clear light of day, he could see what darkness and heavy clothing had hid: the bruise on Dean’s temple continued down behind his ear to the back and side of his neck. A mottled palette of blues, browns and faded yellows, the bruises looked hours old, not days. Alistair, that fucker, had been relentless. “Anything in the newspaper?” he asked as he began to dress.

“The usual—murder, corruption but hey…” Dean turned again and grinned. “The Weeping Water city council is meeting next week to decide on the dates for the annual June parade.”

Sam paused in the middle of pulling on his jeans. “Weeping Water?”

“Yeah, the world’s ending but they’re gonna get their parade.” Dean tossed the newspaper on the bed. “You can’t make this shit up.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. Then, on a different note, he added, “Two local girls got sick last week.” He nudged the paper towards Sam. “They were fine one day, in the ICU the next. Their mom says they went to a school carnival where one of the teachers had a palm reading booth. The girls had a reading and now the mom says the teacher is in league with the devil.”

Sam tugged on his shirt and then picked up the paper. Dean had given the basics, leaving off the part that the teacher had been fired and the doctors were stumped. “You wanna check it out? Columbus isn’t that far from here.”

Dean said nothing for a moment and then he muttered, “It’s probably just food poisoning.”

“But maybe it isn’t.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Maybe it’s no—”

“Sam!” Dean twisted around. “I’m not going. I’m—” He broke off and shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Why?”

Dean shrugged.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s all I’ve got.”

Sam shifted from foot to foot. He knew what this was, just as he knew it _was_ something that time would cure. Fear and an all-encompassing shame that needed little triggering—Sam had heard it all from his position in the hospital corridor. Dean never realized how far his voice carried. Or maybe it was just that Sam’s compass always pointed a particular direction. Long used to the cadences and patterns of Dean’s speech, he’d recognized when the conversation with Castiel had turned south. It hadn’t been hard to catch everything. He’d stood there, back pressed against the wall, listening to Dean’s broken question, ‘ _Is it true? Did I break the first seal?’_ and his equally broken reply when Cas had confirmed, ‘ _Yes.’_

So Sam could talk about getting back on the horse or some crap like that, but maybe it was better this way. It might just be simple food poisoning and if it wasn’t, he was stronger than Dean; he could take care of a demon, easy peasy. “How ‘bout this—I’ll run up to Columbus and you stay here and research our next move. We need to find out what the angels are up to. We need to find Lilith. If Columbus turns out to be something, I’ll call.” Dean didn’t answer. “All right?”

Dean rolled his shoulders and then nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

Sam sat down to pull on his socks and boots. “I’m gonna need the knife and what’s left of the holy water.”

“All right.”

“You’ve got your shotgun and your pistol. Do you want anything else?”

“No, I’m good.”

He found his heavy flannel shirt and tugged that on, too. “I’ll call Bobby and see if he has any intel on the girls.”

“Okay.”

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“’Cause I don—”

“Sam.” Dean ran his hands down his thighs and gripped his knees. “You should go.”

Sam nodded after a moment and then pulled on his jacket. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll call.”

“You do that.”

***

There was more than six inches of snow on the ground and as Sam traveled north, the weather got worse. The Impala slid and shimmied on the ice, whining her displeasure until he was barely crawling along. A couple times he thought about turning around; a couple times he decided to keep pushing forward. The girls in Columbus might need him and Dean would throw it in his face: _‘Sammy can’t drive in a little snow?’_

It would help, though, if Dean would just break down and buy snow tires. But snow tires, according to him, were for baby drivers, not grown men. Maybe it was time they got a new ride. They could go anywhere in a four-wheel drive and they’d have all that space for weapons and gear. But, Sam shrugged uneasily, he didn’t want to give up the car, and it wasn’t just because it was a connection to Dad and the past. They’d had a lot of good times in the car, both in the front seat and the back because motels could be far and few between when you’re in the middle of nowhere.

And that was because of him, he admitted silently, his neck and cheeks flushing. When he was in the mood he never liked to wait and the car was perfect. He always rolled his eyes during one of Dean’s horn-dog moments, but in truth, it wasn’t Dean that had a problem with patience. It wasn’t Dean who would suggest they find a back road hidden by trees or tall bushes, so hot he couldn’t wait, handsy and needy, breath coming in gasps as he—

Sam rubbed his damp palm on his jacket, remembering the last time, on his back, legs all over the place while Dean rode him, whispering _‘Sam, Sam. Sammy…’_

That had been five months ago, a month after Dean had returned. It had been so good, as good as it had been in the beginning before Azazel and Lilith and…

Sam shook his head. It was wrong to think of Ruby and Dean at the same time—even he knew that. He took a deep breath and shelved everything but the snow-covered asphalt and the grey-white sky.

***

Columbus had a surprising number of hospitals within a twenty-mile radius. Sam visited three before he found his quarry at the fourth. The Platte County Hospital was modern with a glass brick and sandstone facade. Just ending her shift, the elderly receptionist readily gave Sam the info he needed when he put forth a spiel about being a distant cousin on his way through town: ‘ _Yes, there are two sisters on the pediatric floor, 301, because of the younger, you know,’_ and ‘ _Yes, they can have visitors but you have to get up there right quick because visiting hours are almost over,’_ and _‘Aren’t you sweet for coming all this way from Omaha. Those poor things—they just won’t wake up,’_ and finally, _‘I have a sister in Omaha—do you know her?’_

Sam thanked her and said, yes, it was tragic and a puzzle and, no, he’d just moved to Omaha from St. Louis. He hurried off before she could ask any more questions.

He took the stairs, arriving at the far end of the wing. Whether by accident or choice, this end of the pediatric floor was almost empty and he passed a line of vacant rooms before coming to the unmanned nurse’s station. It was easy to find 301—it was surrounded by diagnostic equipment of every variety. Two men were standing by the door, talking with a doctor in a white coat. Sam paused, wishing he was close enough to hear. After a moment, one of the men shook his head and turned to his friend and no, it wasn’t two men, but a man and a priest.

So things had gotten that bad and Sam’s stomach dropped. Demonic possession tended to follow a pattern—the only thing he’d really worried about was the possibility that the girls had escaped, ridden out by the demons. Now it seemed that they were so lost that they were dying and he wondered if he’d been wrong. Maybe it was a normal illness after all?

He stepped back, preparing for retreat when the priest looked over. Unfocused, the priest’s gaze slipped over Sam and then in a classic double take, his expression changed. No longer unfocused, he frowned, clearly trying to remember where he’d seen Sam before.

Sam gave his best, _‘No, we don’t know each other,’_ smile and left.

He would have made if he’d taken the stairs instead of the elevator. His finger on the call button, muttering under his breath, “C’mon, c’mon…” he froze at the, “Do I know you?” With no choice, he turned.

It was the two men, the priest and his companion. The priest was as young as he’d seemed and spoke in a thick Spanish accent. He was attractive to the point of pretty, though his good looks were marred by dark circles under his eyes.

“I know you, don’t I?” the priest said with a puzzled half-smile.

“I don’t think so, Father,” Sam said, all conciliatory confusion. If the priest seemed as if he’d been dragged over wet pavement, the other man looked as if he’d been the one to do it. Rawboned and thin, there was something about him that Sam couldn’t place. Other than he looked like he could take a punch or two and give back three. “I mean, I’m not Catholic.”

The priest’s expression didn’t change. “I’m sure I do know you. Maybe you were a parishioner at Saint Anthony’s? In Chicago?”

He never got a chance to answer because the other man finally spoke. With a tipped slant of his head, he said, “You were there in Fairfax when those children were possessed. It was you standing by that bus.”

Shock rippled down Sam’s spine as he processed the words and accent. That the guy was British didn’t matter—that he looked like a demon on the hunt did. But Sam had been here and done that so many times, he was certain his tone didn’t change when he answered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man smiled and gave Sam the once over. “You _were_ there. Are you an exorcist, because my friend here thinks you are. A freelance exorcist.” The man’s smile broadened.

“I—” Sam glanced at the priest. If he just played dumb and clueless, he’d make it out unscathed. He’d lose a few hours worth of work but he couldn’t do much until later on, anyway. “I’m from Omaha.”

The man actually laughed. “Sure you are. And I’m from Kokomo.” His gaze flickered to the elevator doors. “Where’s your friend?”

“I have a lot of friends—which one did you mean?”

“You know—the one that helped you with that demon back in Fairfax. Where is he?”

Sam stilled. And then straightened to his full height and clenched his fists. He could take a lot of things: Ruby’s absence, Pamela’s accusations, hell, everyone’s recriminations and doubts. But he was damned if anyone was gonna use him to get to his own brother. “He’s not here,” he said, ice cooling his voice as he waited for the man to back off.

But the man didn’t flinch or cower. He just leaned closer and whispered slyly, “There you are.”

***

 

Conspire ~ Marcus

 

Marcus was never sure what would have happened in that hospital corridor if Tomas hadn’t intervened. A tussle or even a brawl? Either were a possibility because the young man was that angry, his fists clenched so hard the veins on the back of his hands stood out in sharp relief.

But Tomas was Tomas and he grabbed Marcus’s bicep, murmuring urgently, “Marcus, this is not the place!”

The man’s eyes narrowed and there was a scrap of a moment where Marcus waited, calculating his chances. The man was basically a kid, at least thirty years younger and though he was a lot taller which meant a longer reach, Marcus figured he might stand a chance.

“Please,” Tomas said, his grip tightening.

The man glanced at Tomas and visibly stood down.

After a moment, Marcus did, too. “Are you here about the Edwards girls?”

The man didn’t answer.

“Are you a relation?”

Once more, he got no reply.

Marcus cocked his head and said slowly, “You read about them in the papers.” Even with the stained jacket and jeans, the man had that all-American air which meant an all-American upbringing, but there was something about him… “That’s it, isn’t it? You read about the case and decided to investigate?”

The man gave Tomas another quick peep and then said, “What if I did?”

Marcus nodded. “The same as us.”

“Marcus,” Tomas urged as he finally let go, “we shouldn’t leave the girls alone this long.”

“What’s going on?” The man asked.

“Uh, uh, uh,” Marcus said, waving his finger. “No information until we do a little fact checking.”

The man shifted from side to side. “And that would be?”

Marcus drew his water bottle out of his jacket and uncapped it. “This…” he muttered as he threw the contents at the mans. He was prepared for any reaction except the one he got.

The man didn’t jump back nor did he sizzle and curse. He just rolled his eyes and wiped his face. “I’m not a demon.”

“Says you,” Marcus said, searching for any signs of lying or deception. When he realized the man was telling the truth, he added, “So, you know about demons?”

“I’m a freelance exorcist, aren’t I?”

Marcus hesitated. His gut said the man was lying. His gut also said that innocent look wasn’t all a ploy. There was, however, something odd going on here, something he really couldn’t quite put his finger on and that was never a good thing. “You tell me. What church are you with?”

The man held his hand out. “I wasn’t lying—I’m not Catholic. My name is Sam Richards.”

He took Sam’s hand. “Marcus,” he said.

“Just ‘Marcus?’” Sam asked.

“For now.” Marcus waited for objections but Sam shrugged. “And this is Tomas,” he added with a nod. Tomas and Sam shook hands. “And Tomas is right—we shouldn’t leave the girls alone.”

They all turned towards the nurse’s station. Marcus let Sam take the lead so he could observe.

“What’s wrong with them?” Sam asked Tomas.

Tomas fielded that one, “Officially, a psychotic break.”

“And unofficially?”

Tomas shook his head. “Unofficially, we are not sure. There are no signs of the usual corruption and decay that occurs during a possession which means for once the doctors could be right.”

“Two sisters experiencing a psychotic break on the same exact day?” Sam said, skepticism in every vowel and consonant. “What are the chances of that?”

“Slim to none,” Tomas replied, “Especially as the events occurred at the same minute. The girls, Lindsey and Lily, were pulling into a parking lot when whatever happened, happened. The bank nearby had a video camera. The car turns into the lot and keeps going, right into a tree.”

“I thought the newspaper said they went to a school carnival?”

Tomas shrugged. “They did. They took ill the next day.”

“Did anyone check out the medium?”

Marcus answered before Tomas could, “If by ‘medium’ you mean a sixty-year old woman who is no more psychic than a pet rabbit, then yes, we did. She is, as they say, prostrate with grief that anyone would think her a real witch.”

They’d arrived at the room. Lindsey was the older of the two—she was a plain girl with smooth dark skin and dark brown hair that haloed her face. Lily had the same hair color but she was very pretty. Marcus wondered if she was the more outgoing of the two. According to the doctor, when the paramedics arrived on the scene, the two girls were unconscious but Lily was holding Lindsey as if protecting her from someone. Or some thing.

Sam went up to Lily and bent over her. “Are they in a coma?”

Marcus crossed his arms over his chest. “Not according to their doctor. They’re just asleep.”

“Has anyone tried waking them up?”

Marcus glanced at Tomas and then said, “We gather there’s been some discussion about administrating a powerful anti-psychotic but at this point the regimen has been mostly stimulants and old-fashioned shouting.”

“Shouting? Really?” Sam bent closer. “Have you noticed anything wrong with their eyes?”

“Do you mean has the demon presented itself and shown its ratty little face? No, there’s been none of that.”

“Huh.”

“That’s what I said.” Marcus would have added more, but just then, the reason for their access came into the room. “Sam Richards, this is Sheila Edwards. Mrs. Edwards, Sam thought he might be able to help.”

Sheila Edwards was thin, exhausted, and Anglo which made sense as the girls were clearly bi-racial. Her hairdo was reined in by shiny hair spray and she wore garish makeup that was too many hours old and accented her harsh features. But she was a nice lady who didn’t deserve to have her only children take ill at the same time.

Sheila pushed her stiff hair out of her eyes and looked up at Sam. “Are you a priest, too?”

Sam shot a glance at Marcus and then shook his head. “No, ma’am, I’m not. Something like this happened to my sister when I was a kid. I thought I could help. That’s all.”

Marcus raised his eyebrow, surprised at the story that had flowed smoothly off Sam’s lips. If Sam lied that easily it might be work getting the truth out of him. That was, if it _was_ a lie. Maybe it was the truth.

Sheila, of course, hadn’t noticed. She came up to Sam and put her hand on his arm, hope lighting her dull eyes. “What happened? Was it the same thing? Did you tell Doctor Evans?”

_‘And that’s why you stay as close to the truth as possible,’_ Marcus wanted to say, meeting Tomas’s gaze. Tomas frowned and looked away.

“I—” Sam said, backpedaling for all he was worth. “Actual—”

Sam was saved by an orderly with an armful of linens; Marcus wanted to grin at his obvious relief.

“Gents,” Marcus said, eyeing the orderly and Sheila. “Visiting hours are almost over. Why don’t we take this downstairs.”

Sheila turned her attention on Tomas. “Father, will you stay with me. I’d like to pray.”

Tomas couldn’t say no. He gave Marcus a speaking glance and then let himself be tugged over to the chair between the beds.

“Come on,” Marcus murmured to Sam. “Let’s leave them to it.”

***

With Sam following like a particularly large shadow, Marcus went downstairs. The token signage directed him to an empty cafe with vending machines and a microwave. He was, he found, quite hungry and he went to stand in front of the machine that held packaged sandwiches. “How sick do you think I’ll get if I eat one of those?”

Sam peered through the scuffed plastic door. “It was made three weeks ago so I’d give it a pass.”

“Maybe they’re trying to drum up business.”

“Maybe they’re just short-staffed and forgot.”

Marcus grinned and went to the coffee machine. He put in the quarters and waited. Machine-made or not, the coffee smelled heavenly.

“Would have figured you for a tea man,” Sam said, getting his own cup.

Marcus snorted as he poured a measure of sugar into the cup. “Because I’m English or because I’m old?”

“You’re what, fifty? That’s hardly old.”

“In my line of work it is,” Marcus answered, and then muttered under his breath, “I’d kill for a ciggie.”

“Now _that’_ ll make you old,” Sam said. He added sugar, about a tenth of what Marcus poured in.

“Says the kid who was born yesterday.” They had their choice of tables; Marcus led the way to the row by the windows.

“As someone famous said, it’s not the years, it’s the mileage.”

“Raiders of the Lost Ark. Great film.”

“Yeah, it is.” Sam sat down.

Marcus sat as well, not missing the fact that Sam had chosen the seat facing the main doors and that he’d glanced all around before doing even that. “I can quote more movie lines than I should be able to, which says a lot about my childhood.”

“Actually,” Sam said with a pleasant smile, “it says nothing about your childhood. Except that, like most people, you’ve watched a movie or two.”

Marcus gestured with regretful, false apology. “I’m not gonna tell you anything about myself, Sam. If you manage to guess any of it, bully for you. If not…” He shrugged and took a sip of coffee.

“Is that a challenge?”

“If you will, but I’d much rather discuss the girls upstairs.”

Sam ignored Marcus and forged on, “You gave yourself away a few times so I’m guessing you’re a priest, too. You’re not wearing your collar, though, so you either quit the priesthood or you were excommunicated.”

“Maybe it’s just that it’s not that comfortable,” Marcus suggested.

“Nah, that’s not it,” Sam said. “Most of the priests I’ve met take their jobs seriously. They’d never consider going out in public without the uniform. So what it is—excommunication or you left the Church?”

Marcus curved an arm over the chair next to him and examined Sam. He rarely gave out personal information to complete strangers and there was something about Sam that made him doubly cautious. But what the hell—though he hadn’t had time to examine the Edwards girls closely, he was confounded. Maybe a ‘freelance exorcist’ could do what he couldn’t, even if the freelance exorcist wasn’t really one. Besides, when he gave up a few useless secrets, he tended to receive the same in return, and they weren’t always useless. “All right,” he said slowly, “I’m not on the run but the Church decided they’d had enough of me.”

“Why?”

“Insubordination. They didn’t like my methodology.”

“Which means?”

“Which means I’m a loose cannon, according to them. They know I’m out and about but haven’t sicced their hounds on me. Yet.” It was a lie of omission, but Sam didn’t need to know that. “And you? How did you become a freelance exorcist?”

Sam grinned. “You think I’m lying about that, don’t you?”

Marcus shrugged once more.

“I knew it.” Sam shook his head. “But, yeah, it’s what I do.”

“Which means?”

“It means we— I, go around the country helping people when I can.”

_‘We.’_ “And if you can’t?”

Sam’s smile faded. “Not gonna talk about that.”

“So that baby face hides a dark side, does it?” When Sam’s eyes narrowed, Marcus cocked his head. “Does your partner know about that, I wonder?” Another perfect hit as Sam’s expression closed up. “Yeah,” Marcus murmured, “that hurts, and makes me think he does.”

“Stop.”

“There’s video of your bus-side exorcism—did you know?”

Sam swallowed.

“It’s only a few seconds long but it shows you holding a shotgun and your partner’s expression when you pull the trigger. He actually flinches.”

“I told you to stop.”

“Stop what? Pushing and prodding? I’m gonna find out, you know. It’s what I do, find the things that people want to hide.”

“Marcus…”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it ou—”

“Jesus!” Sam swore softly as he gripped the styrofoam cup too hard. Coffee spilled all over the table. “You’re _just_ like him.”

Marcus got up and went to the counter. He got a stack of napkins and brought them back. “Here,” he said, helping Sam mop up, kind now that Sam had let a secret bleed forth. “Where is he?”

Sam cleaned his side of the table. “I’m not gonna tell you that.”

“Hm.” Marcus finished up and took the napkins and what was left of Sam’s cup and lobbed the whole thing into the bin. When he sat back down, Sam was staring at his hands as if they were the most interesting things in the world. “I only ask because an exorcism is a difficult process. Some take weeks, round the clock, but none are for the untrained. And the training, in my experience, takes years upon years.” He leaned on the table. “Why did he leave you on your own?”

“He didn’t,” Sam muttered.

“Is he your lover?”

Sam rolled his eyes but his cheeks flushed, brightening his eyes. “No.”

“Then why do you leap to his defense so fiercely? I thought you were gonna brain me back there.” Marcus leaned nearer. “You do know what your expression says every time I mention his name, yeah?”

“You don’t _know_ his name.”

“Potato, potahto.”

If he expected Sam to put up another fight, he was mistaken because Sam smiled an unexpectedly charming smile and said, “You talk a lot of shit, you know that?”

“Hm,” Marcus agreed. “Some would call it a defining weakness.”

“By some do you mean Father Tomas?”

Sam pronounced Tomas’s name as ‘Thomas,’ but Marcus didn’t correct him. Sam was clearly waiting for him to show that particular hand. “No, I meant all the priests at St. Bart’s. They thought I was a mouthy little pisser.”

“Where’s St. Bart’s?”

“In the middle of nowhere,” Marcus answered, then added softly because it was just a question, “Near Leicestershire, England.”

“Do you miss it?”

Marcus looked up. “Not in the slightest.”

If Sam wanted to ask another question, he was thwarted by Tomas’s soft, “There you are.”

Tomas had started the day tired and now looked like death warmed over. The tender shoot that had taken root in Marcus’s breast stretched as if reaching for the sun. He always felt that way when he first saw Tomas, even after an absence of an hour or two. It should be a worry because it wasn’t just him, but he couldn’t muster the strength, especially as nothing was going to happen. He’d made his mind up about that months ago. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Without asking, Marcus got up and fetched another coffee, adding way too much sugar because Tomas liked it disgustingly sweet. As an afterthought, he got another coffee for Sam. When he went back to the table, Sam was watching him with a gleam in his eye but said nothing when Marcus sat the cups down and muttered, “Drink.”

“Oh,” Tomas said, picking up the cup as if it had appeared all by itself. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“How are the girls?” Sam said, still giving Marcus a triumphant smile.

Tomas took a sip of coffee before saying, “Not good. I can’t find any sense of a demon at all. Maybe we were wrong.”

“No, we’re right,” Marcus replied. “We’ve just never seen this aspect before.” When Tomas frowned doubtfully, he turned. “Priests have been exorcising demons for as long as there has been the priesthood, Tomas. It would be foolish to think that the creatures we’ve encountered are the sum total of their kind. For all we know, they mutate much like other organisms. There’s been an increase in demonic possessions; perhaps this is one result of that increase.”

Sam had frowned, too, and was listening avidly. “You’re right. We’re seeing way more activity. It’s been hard to keep up.”

“Who’s ‘we?’” Marcus asked blandly.

“D— Er, my partner and I.”

Damn. Almost got him there. “Did Sheila leave?”

Tomas nodded. “She said she will come back in the morning.” He gave Marcus a sideways glance. “She’s bringing a priest from her home town to consult with us.”

“It’s okay,” Marcus said, wishing they were alone so he could touch Tomas’s arm. “Sam knows we’re acting outside of the Church’s purview.”

Tomas turned his gaze on Sam. “And?”

“And,” Sam said, “I don’t care. It’s not like I have anyone to tell, anyway.”

No one to tell. That was a bit of the truth, Marcus mused, and he put another puzzle piece in place.

“So, now what?” Tomas asked. “Should we leave the girls to the doctors and their parish priest?”

Sam’s gaze sharpened like a bloodhound that had scented its prey and Marcus decided to show his hand. Well, a bit of it, at least. “I was going to suggest we leave Sam to it, then follow him when he and his partner-in-hiding take the girls to wherever they’re going to take them so they can perform the exorcism, but I think we’ll skip that bit.” He smiled at the parade of expressions on Sam’s face—the boy really was like an open book. “That was the plan, wasn’t it? Lull me and Tomas into trusting you so you could abduct the girls?”

Angry once more, Sam shook his head. “He’s not _here._ I told you and told you.”

“Which means, yes.”

Sam placed his hands on the table. “Which means no. I’m not going to take the girls. I—” He stopped talking with an abrupt gulp.

“You’re planning on performing the ritual _here_?” Marcus said with a small laugh. “How? You don’t have the time and I’ve yet to meet a doctor that’s okay with it.”

“You don’t believe that I can do it,” Sam said slowly. “And you don’t trust me.”

Marcus leaned forward, matching Sam pose for pose. “Why would I possibly trust you? I don’t _know_ you, and because I don’t know you, you’re not performing an exorcism of any kind. Why else do you think you’re down here and not up there? It is not _happening_.”

Later, he told himself that it was the amalgam of running from the powers that be, as well as being too close to Tomas for too long that made him slow and stupid. But still, when a voice from behind announced, “Dude, I don’t think some Limey bastard’s gonna tell my brother what he can and cannot do,” Marcus jumped.

 

 

Conduct ~ Dean

 

Dean watched as the three men leaped up to face him. Surprising the two strangers was a given because he’d taken position behind them, but he was sure Sam had seen him. Guess that would be his practical joke for the month. “What’s going on?”

“Dean,” Sam breathed, then shut his mouth.

“Sam,” Dean said. “Your text said two girls were possessed. Why are you down here and not up there?”

The Brit raised an eyebrow, but just said, “I’m afraid that’s my fault. Your brother…” He shot Sam a quick glance “…was trying to stall for time and I inconvenienced him by allowing it.”

Dean wished he could say he’d been there the whole time, but he’d arrived just in time to hear the Brit ask about the ritual. “Is that hot?” He nodded to Sam’s coffee as he sat down.

Sam nodded.

Taking the cup, Dean stowed the gear bag under the table. “I just drove through a bitch of a snowstorm. The least you all can do is sit down so I don’t screw up my neck.” The coffee wasn’t hot in the slightest but it was warm and that was better than nothing.

One by one they all sat down, the Brit last, his body language screaming that he was prepared to respond to whatever Dean threw down. _Give me some time to thaw out, Sean Connery._ “What’s going on? How’re the girls?”

It was the priest that spoke, getting in edgewise, “They’re still sleeping and we don’t know what is going on. It is unlike anything any of us has seen before.” And then the priest smiled and held out his hand. “Tomas Ortega, and you are…?”

Dean took Tomas’s hand. “Dean Johnson.” It looked like he had competition in the most pretty department because Tomas was handsome until he smiled. “You’re from Mexico?”

“Not originally,” Tomas said with a weary shrug, as if expecting the question. “I was born in Chicago and raised in Mexico City.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “That’s a new one.”

“Not to me, it’s not.”

He grunted at the priest’s snarky response. Tomas wasn’t the pushover he seemed; good for him. The Brit, however… “And you are?” he said, turning to the older man.

“Marcus, no last name, ex-priest.”

When Dean was ten or so, his dad had worked with a guy from London. He still remembered his dad’s warning: ‘ _Ian and I are gonna look for the werewolf—if only Ian comes back, I want you to keep him away from Sammy.’_ They’d both returned hours later, torn up but alive, and spent the evening drinking the hunt away. Curled up next to Sam in the bedroom, Dean had fallen asleep to the sound of them singing only to wake with a start. Ian was standing in the doorway, just staring at Sam and him. He’d sat up and put his hand on Sam’s chest and stared back. After a moment, Ian had left.

He’d never been sure if it had been a sex thing or a fucked-up crazy English thing but Marcus had the look of the latter, scarred and tattooed, like he’d been to hell and back and not in the good way. “‘Ex-priest?’ What’d you do? Get a little too cozy with your flock?”

Marcus winked. “Something like that.”

“Marcus,” Tomas chided, shaking his head. “It wasn’t anything like that and you know it.”

“It’s cool,” Dean said. “Obfuscation is a necessary tool of survival.” Tomas frowned in confusion and Marcus grinned as if saying _‘Yeah, it is.’_ As for Sam, Dean didn’t have to look to know that Sam was also frowning. _What’s the matter, Sammy? I can’t read a book, too? “‘_ Obfuscation,’ he said for the Tomas’s benefit. “It means to purposefully cloud or confuse.”

Tomas nodded slowly and Dean could practically hear him silently repeat the word. “So,” he said, resting his elbows on the table. “You’ve got two girls that you don’t know what to do with. Wish I had that problem.”

“Dean,” Sam said quietly.

And yeah, the joke had been a mistake because Tomas opened his mouth in shock and Marcus lost any air of friendliness.

“Do you think this is _funny?_ ” Marcus said, leaning close, giving Dean the old up-and-down if he were a new species of cockroach. “Those two young girls are fighting for their lives. Where does humor come into it?”

“Look, pal, humor is what keeps me sane most days. If you’d seen just some—” Dean broke off and glanced at Sam. Sam was glaring so no help there. “Whatever.”

“And that’s supposed to make it better? That you make a sexual reference to children but it’s okay because it’s just a joke? That you’re only _partly_ crazy?” Marcus shook his head and sat back. “I’m not letting you anywhere near those girls.”

The moment grew tense. In the background, one of the vending machine’s fan turned on and Dean focused on that and not the stab of anger that warmed his chest, the shame that burned his stomach. “And you’re not _letting_ me do anything, ex-priest. You’re going to stand back while Sam and I take care of business.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Gentlemen,” Tomas said, even as Sam tugged on Dean’s sleeve and muttered urgently, “Hey.”

Dean shrugged off Sam’s hand and turned. “What?”

“Can I speak to you?”

“Not a good time, Sammy.”

Sam’s response was swift and decisive. He grabbed Dean’s jacket and hauled him to his feet, then ushered him away from the table, one huge hand on his back.

Dean, of course, could fight but Sam’s grip was like iron and it would be stupid, having a knock-down-drag-out in front of two men he didn’t trust. Well, one, because the priest seemed all right. He let Sam push him to the vending machines, jerking free as soon as they stopped. “ _What?”_

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Sam hissed. “What the hell, man.”

Dean straightened his jacket. “Yeah, okay, not my finest minute but Sam, are you really gonna take orders from _him?”_

“I’m not taking ‘orders’ from anyone, Dean.” Sam actually used air quotes. “I’m trying to figure out what to do!”

“What’s the problem? We go in there, convince the demons it’s in their best interests to vamoose and we’re done.”

“Don’t you think I thought of that?”

Dean made his patented ‘ _Well?_ ’ gesture.

“It’s not that simple. The doctors can’t wake the girls up. They aren’t in a coma, either. So how are we gonna talk to anyone when we can’t, you know, _talk_ to them?”

“Maybe the demons are playing dead.”

Sam ran his hand through his hair. “For a week? Why would they do that?”

“Okay,” Dean murmured, scuffing the floor with the toe of his boot. “Yeah, demons aren’t the most patient fuckers out there.” He sighed and looked up at Sam. “All right, here’s the plan: we get rid of our wannabes over there and take a little head stroll. I’ve got some of that African dream root in the trunk.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

“Well, yeah—what’s the problem?”

Sam stepped closer. “The problem is we have no idea what’s inside those girls. If we enter their dreams and there are demons waiting, what’s to say they won’t grab us, too? Do you really want to be stuck inside an unconscious kid with a demon for company?”

“I—” Dean had to force himself not to back up. Sam smelled of that new aftershave they’d picked up at a five ’n dime the week before. Who would have thought that something that cost five bucks would smell so sexy? “Okay, that could be bad but do you have a better idea?”

“Not really, no. I mean, we can call Bobby and look through Dad’s book. Maybe it’s not a demon thing after all.”

“Maybe.”

Sam stuck his hands in his pockets. “And our guests?”

“They can hit the road. We work alone.” When Sam didn’t answer, Dean sighed, “What now?”

“It’s just…” Sam shrugged. “I like them. Marcus is a dick but Tomas seems like he really wants to help. And he’s a priest.”

“Like that reassures me.” He bit his lip. “Did you test them?”

Sam shrugged again. “They got me first and then I forgot.”

Dean sighed again and muttered, “Sam.” Before Sam could reply, Dean got out his flask and strode over to the table. With their backs turned, he caught the two men by surprise.

He watched them sputter, telling himself he didn’t feel guilty about dousing a priest and waited for Marcus’s anger. All he got, after Sam brought them clean napkins was: “It’s okay. Turnabout, I suppose, is fair play.”

***

Dean and Sam waited while the priests mopped up their faces and necks. When they were finished, he said, “There’s one thing you gotta know: I don’t work with anyone but Sam. It’s how it is. That said…” He eyed Marcus with suspicion. “If Sam’s at a loss and you’re at a loss that means I’m probably gonna be at a loss. So what’s the plan?”

“Whatever it is,” Marcus answered, “it’ll have to be quick. While you two were having your little lover’s spat, Tomas got a call from Mrs. Edwards. She’s going to move the girls to University of Nebraska Hospital in Omaha tomorrow afternoon. I’m assuming as it’s a hospital in a university, that means our ability to come and go as we please will be severely limited.”

Dean knew Sam had glanced at him but he ignored the urge to turn his head. _‘Lover’s spat—buddy, you don’t know the half of it.’_ “Yeah, that could be a problem.”

“What if we hijack the transport vehicles?” Sam said.

“Back to abduction, are we?” Marcus said sarcastically.

“Look, Sherlo—” Dean said, only to be interrupted by Tomas’s quiet, “I have an idea.”

All three men turned to Tomas.

He’d folded his napkin in a small square and now pushed it to the center of the table. “As none of us have examined the girls closely, why don’t we take the opportunity afforded us by the relatively low security in _this_ hospital to appraise the situation?” He smiled crookedly. “After all, how can we judge if we don’t have all the facts.”

Marcus melted like butter in the sun and Dean wondered if it was as obvious to Sam as it was to him, just who wore the pants in that relationship. It was kind of screwed up that they were both priests, but that was the world for you. “And this is you telling me you _haven’t_ sussed out the situation?” He turned. “Sam?”

“There wasn’t time,” Sam said.

“To be fair,” Marcus added, “I didn’t let him have the time.”

Dean pinched the top of his nose. “You guys are giving me a headache. All right…” He stood up. “Let’s go see what’s going on.”

“And if we can’t get in the room?” Marcus asked.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

***

Crossing the bridge was, unfortunately, a requirement as the nurse’s station was occupied by a very tall woman that was built like a linebacker. After a discussion held in the stairwell while Dean and Marcus argued the merits of bluffing, sneaking by, or going under cover, they settled on the latter. Dean and Sam borrowed some scrubs from a utility closet and changed. When they met Marcus and Tomas to finalize their plan, Marcus gave Dean a sneering once-over and told him that green was a good look on him. Dean answered, _‘Keep it in your pants, Downton Abbey.’_ Marcus grinned and shot back, _‘Like that’s gonna be a problem,’_ which almost started another argument.

Luckily, Sam was in prime placating mode and diffused the situation again by simply hauling Dean away. Like before, Dean let himself be manhandled, mostly because it had been the most action he’d seen in weeks.

After that, it was fairly easy to get into the girls’ room and while Sam stood guard, Dean went to the first bed. For some reason he’d thought the older girl would be, well, older, but she was maybe sixteen or seventeen. She reminded him a little of Meg minus the pale skin, the long hair, and the psycho crazy. He glanced at the monitors—the girl’s heartbeat was scary slow and he thought about his comment down in the cafeteria. He felt sick.

“How is she?” Sam whispered from the door.

“I don’t know. Can a heart beat as little as forty? That’s not normal, right?”

“If she’s healthy, yeah, it can be.”

He went to the other girl’s bed. “I don’t think that’s what’s happening here, Sam.” He leaned over the other girl. She was a little younger but not by much. He bent closer and squeezed her hand, saying as loud as he dared, “ _Christo!_ ” There was no response, but he hadn’t really expected it to be that easy.

“Anything?” Sam asked.

“Nope,” he muttered. “Do you have the knife?”

“You’re not gonna cut her, are you?”

“I don’t know, Sam,” he said, frustration seeping out. “I’m grasping at straws here.” And maybe it was just that frustration that made him reach for the girl’s eyes and peel an eyelid back. “Whoa,” he said, recoiling.

“What is it?”

“I’m having an X-files moment.”

Sam hurried over. “What d’you mean?”

Dean gestured. “Open her eye and look for yourself.”

He waited as Sam gently pried the girl’s eyelid up. Sure enough, a wash of milky grey swam across the girl’s eye. Sam jerked and the girl’s eyelid dropped.

They stared at each other but it was Sam that spoke first, “So, a demon that’s not a demon?”

“Hold on,” Dean murmured, going to the older girl. “Bingo.” He said, watching the grey film slink and swirl. “Same thing. Why didn’t the doctors catch this?”

“How would I know?”

“Because you would think they’d notice something as freaky as that!”

“Dean, do I look like a doctor?”

Dean pursed his lips and then nodded at Sam’s scrubs.

Sam shook his head. “Okay, so I _look_ like a doctor but I’m not.”

Dean straightened up and scratched his jaw. “What the hell is going on?”

“Dude, maybe we should wash up in case it’s contagious.”

Dean made a face and muttered, “Oh, please,” but when Sam went to the sink, he followed.

“So,” he said as soon as his hands were rubbed raw. “When is a demon not a demon?”

“When is a demon not a demon?” Sam repeated in a soft voice, frowning at the floor as he dried his hands. “A demon can be driven out, a demon can be killed. A demon enters a host by force and—” He looked up. “Can a demon be shared?”

About to demand, ‘ _For the love of God, Sam, stop saying the word demon_ ,’ Dean never got a chance because the door swung open and Marcus slipped through.

Marcus waved them sharply towards the bathroom. The three of them hurried into the small room just as Tomas, speaking in a blatantly carrying voice, entered.

“It’s the mum,” Marcus whispered. And then he turned his head slightly. “What smells like lilies?”

Dean held his hands up.

Marcus shook his head slowly. “The girls are not contagious. You do know that, right?”

Dean would have answered definitively but Sam elbowed him in the ribs.

They stood there for long minutes listening to Tomas’s muffled voice until there was a scuffle and shuffle. The door opened and Tomas leaned in.

“Mrs. Edwards is insisting I perform an exorcism,” Tomas said. “I told her I needed twenty or thirty minutes to pray for guidance.” And then he frowned and sniffed the air. “Is that lilies?”

Dean and Sam sighed.

***

While Sam once again played lookout, Dean gave the priests the rundown, ending with their very unscientific hypothesis: “So we think a demon entered the girls but screwed it up and got them both.” He paused, not wanting to ask but needing to: “Has that ever happened to you?”

Marcus had been examining the youngest girl and he answered absently, “Have Tomas and I been possessed at the same time?” He straightened up, adding before Dean could bark a reply, “Sorry. No, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s like the fucker can’t quite get a foothold.”

“Agreed.”

Tomas came to stand by Marcus’s side. “So if the demon has been divided, as it were, how can we possibly rouse it enough to get it to respond to our call?”

“I doubt we can,” Marcus answered. “I’ve seen many forms of exorcism but they all require a certain amount of participation from the instigator.”

“About that,” Dean said, shooting a quick look at Sam. “I’ve got an idea. You’re not gonna like it.”

***

Marcus didn’t like it. Tomas, though, heard Dean out from start to finish with only a slight frown.

“And you really want to slice them open with _that…”_ Marcus jabbed his finger at the knife. “…and goad the demon into making a move?”

“I think it’ll work and we won’t be slicing. We’ll try a tiny cut for starters.”

Marcus made a ‘give it here’ gesture and reluctantly, Dean handed the knife over.

Marcus bent his head, tracing the hilt’s decoration. And then he touched the blade. “Oh.”

“‘Oh,’ what?” Dean asked. It was his imagination that the blade had glowed when Marcus touched it, right?

“It’s warm.”

“It was in my pocket, dude—of course it’s warm.”

“No, I mean it’s warm, warm.” Marcus gave the knife to Tomas.

Tomas held the knife in the palms of his hands and then got the same intent, yet absent expression. “Oh.”

Dean raised his eyebrow Sam’s way. Sam shrugged. So, no, Sam had never felt anything either. But in the end it was a good thing because Marcus drew a deep breath and then nodded. “Okay, as long as it’s sanitized, we’ll give it a try.”

***

_‘Give it a try’_ meant another disagreement because Marcus wouldn’t allow Dean or Sam in the room while the exorcism took place. He cited some bullshit about distractions and dangers, none of which mattered to Dean. And then he mentioned all the times a demon had pulled things out in the open, revealed secrets and confidences and the things that should have stayed hidden. Dean had hesitated, then given in—he’d didn’t have a clean conscience and he didn’t give a crap what the priests thought of him. But Sam was another story, so he grudgingly agreed.

While Tomas played decoy, Dean and Sam retrieved their gear and found an empty room. They changed clothes behind the room’s privacy curtain, Dean making sure to keep his eyes to himself. When they were dressed, they sat to wait it out.

There were a lot of things Dean was good at but killing time wasn’t one of them. He made a mental list of the things they needed to do as soon as they were back on the road: Find Lilith, find Cas, dodge Zachariah. Change the oil on the Impala because it had been months.

Fix this thing with Sam.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Zachariah might have convinced Dean that he was meant to do this, meant to be a hunter, but Ruby was still around and Sam was still lying. Still lying, still fucking up whatever they’d once had. Unless there was someone other than Ruby waiting in the wings—by Dean’s count, Sam had furtively checked his cell four times now, as sneaky as a junkie waiting on his dealer.

So what if there was someone else? He and Sam had never made promises—hell they never even talked about their hours beneath the sheets even though he was fairly certain Sam would love nothing more. It was the way it was. But if there was another someone, if this Ruby thing had been more than simple grief and loneliness, he was gon—

“That won’t help,” Sam said.

Dean jerked his head up. “What?”

Sam nodded at Dean’s hands. “That.”

Dean looked down—his fingers were laced together so tight his knuckles were white. He made himself smile, made himself sit up, lighten up. “It can’t hurt.” He stretched his legs, carefully avoiding Sam’s.

Sam leaned back, same as Dean. “How’d you get here?”

“How do you think?” A puke green, rusted out piece of crap Camino that had fishtailed the whole way.

“Where’d you dump it?”

In the blue light from the fluorescents, Sam looked ill. “Two streets over and before you ask, yeah, I wiped it down.”

Sam shrugged. “I wasn’t gonna ask.”

Dean grunted.

Sam said nothing for a while, then remarked, “We’re out of holy water.”

“I’ll ask the good Father to fill us up.”

Sam grinned weakly. “You do know how wrong that sounded, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“It’s a good thing he’s here,” Sam remarked. “I’ll see if I can get a couple gallons of water at the store. Might as well stock up.” He nudged Dean’s boot. “I think we’re getting low on rounds.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Dean shoved his hands in his pockets. Conversations like this were dangerous because they were normal, and normal was the start of a very slippery slope. “How’re we on salt?”

“We’ve got that twenty-five pound bag but that’s it.”

Dean frowned. “Already? What’ve you been doing with it?”

“We’ve been busy, Dean. And it’s gonna get busier as we get closer to—” Sam shut up and shifted restlessly, angrily.

“Yeah,” Dean said, and then, “sorry,” because it wasn’t just Sam that had to make sure their stock of supplies stayed full.

Sam pressed his leg against Dean’s. “It’s okay.”

He wanted to move away as much as he wanted to make a move, drop to his knees and spread Sam’s long, long legs and—

He was on his feet before he knew it, striding over to the window. So, yeah, it had been him that had avoided Sam’s kiss the night that things had blown up, him that had said, _‘No more until Ruby’s out of the picture.’_ But, still, he’d had no idea how hard it was gonna be, keeping his hands to himself. “What the hell is taking them so long?”

“Marcus said days. Maybe they—”

A flash of light interrupted Sam, and then another, a cascade of sparks as every light bulb and electrical outlet in the room popped. Under the stench of charred electricity and the cries of either patients or staff, Dean grabbed the duffle bag and muttered, “C’mon,” and hurried from the room.

The hallway was chaos. Equipment had fallen over, the fluorescent lights had burst and the air was filled with smoke. A nurse ran by, giving Dean a distracted, “We’re evacuating!” Dean kept going, shouting, “Careful where you walk, Sam! There’s glass everywhere.”

Sam replied, “Got it,” and then coughed.

Unlike the hallway, the Edwards’ room was shockingly normal. There were no broken lights and no smoke. Dean shoved Sam inside. “Did it work?” he said as closed the door. He’d spoken in general but it was Marcus that answered.

“See for yourself.” Marcus handed the knife to Dean.

Tomas was standing by the bed. He was holding a Bible and wearing a stole. He was also smiling, almost glowing as he stepped back to reveal the two girls. The eldest had climbed into bed with the youngest and they were holding each other and crying.

“Wow,” Sam said, coming to stand by Dean.

“Perfectly said but I think it’s time to leave,” Marcus murmured, nodding to the window and the sound of distant sirens.

Tomas glanced at the girls and then steered everyone to the side of the room. “I should stay,” he murmured. “The staff will want some sort of explanation. I’ll tell them I was praying.” He turned to Marcus. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

Dean elbowed Sam. “Where’d you park?”

“In the lot,” Sam answered. And then, out of the blue, he asked Marcus, “Are you hungry? There’s a place about five miles south of here near the highway. I’m not sure how good it is.”

_‘Don’t say yes, don’t say yes…’_ Dean willed silently, not too surprised when Marcus smiled and said, “If I can hitch a ride, sure,” because that’s how things were going for him lately.

***

Deciding caution was in order, they split up, Marcus using the elevator while Dean and Sam used the back stairs. They were on their way down when Sam tapped on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey, before I forget, I told them that we were freelance exorcists.”

“So?”

“So they don’t know about the other stuff.”

Dean stopped and looked up at Sam. “Freelance exorcists—they bought it?”

“Well, yeah,” Sam said. “Why wouldn’t they?”

Dean grinned. “So, no vampires or werewolves or angels?”

“No,” Sam said slowly. “And you’re not going to tell them, either. If they haven’t run across all that, there must be a reason, right? Dean?”

Dean didn’t answer, already clattering down, imagining how much fun it was gonna be telling that arrogant ass, Marcus, of the other things that went bump in the night.

 

 

 

 

Conclude

 

The place near the highway turned out to be an old 24/7 diner, the kind Marcus loved because they were so quintessentially American. This one was almost empty and the waiter—a kid about eighteen with the bad skin to prove it—sighed when they entered.

“He’s not happy to see us,” Dean muttered.

“He was probably counting the minutes until he could go sleep in the back,” Marcus replied.

“It’s after one, guys,” Sam said. “And Dean, you can barely watch an episode of The Golden Girls without falling asleep if it’s on after ten.”

Marcus laughed out loud and Dean growled, “Like you know,” and then, because what the hell did he care what Marcus thought, he added, “I dig Sophia, okay?”

Marcus was still smiling when they took a seat next to the windows. It felt good to laugh. There hadn’t been much to laugh about for a while now. “One o’clock,” he mused. “I thought it was eight or nine.”

Dean drew a menu from the stack. “Time flies and all that.” He was hungry but the idea of his usual post, kill-things burger didn’t sound so good. Not that he’d tell Sam that, so when the kid came by with coffee and an order pad, he said, “Pancakes and bacon.”

Marcus said, “The same,” as did Sam.

“You guys are so original,” Dean muttered. The coffee was surprisingly good.

Marcus raised an eyebrow Sam’s way. In typical American fashion, there were water glasses on table and he pushed his aside. “I always order pancakes—it’s the one thing Americans get right.”

“What a surprise,” Dean said. “We kicked your assess a couple hundred years ago and you guys have been bitching about it ever since.”

Sam kicked Dean’s ankle. “Dean, when has anyone from England ever complained about us?”

Dean made a face. “I hear things, Sammy.”

Marcus listened to the back and forth, unable to stop from saying, “How long have you guys been together?”

“Oh, man,” Dean said before Sam could respond. “This again.”

“We’re not a couple,” Sam said, summoning patience because it was late and he was tired. “I told you that already.”

“So you really _are_ brothers,” Marcus answered after a moment. “Which means the surnames you gave me were a lie.” He waved his coffee cup. “How long have you been doing this?”

“A while now,” Sam answered.

“A while, meaning…” Marcus prompted.

Dean planted both elbows on the table and growled, “All our lives, all right?”

“Were you orphans?” Marcus cocked his head.

Sam answered softly, “No.”

“Then, what kind of parents would let their children become exorcists?”

Dean sneered. “I got a better question for you—why aren’t you more shocked? Most people would be pissing themselves but not you. Why?”

_Why indeed._ Marcus shrugged. “My own introduction to all things demonic began when I was twelve. I just assumed…” He glanced at Sam.

“You assumed you were the only one?” Dean purred. “You assumed you were the only one to get the short end of a freaking long stick? Not hardly, pal.”

Sam could feel it, the gathering of Dean’s anger. If they were alone, he’d be able to find the words to stem the course but they weren’t so he didn’t. In the end it was okay because it was Marcus himself who put out the fire.

“Sorry,” Marcus apologized. “It’s probably just jealousy. I’ve never worked with a partner; it’s harder than I would have thought.”

“You and Tomas just started working together?” Sam asked, surprised. By the way the two spoke and acted around each other, he’d figured they’d been together for years.

Marcus sat back. Condensation had formed on the side of his water glass and he traced one of the drops. “Yeah, about seven months ago.” He gave them a considering glance, then said a mental, _‘Screw it_.’ “We helped a family in Chicago. The Rances?”

Dean grunted as Sam breathed, “Oh. I heard about that. The daughter was possessed.” Still on the frantic hunt for Dean, he’d read the news and then let it slip from his radar. “The grandmother was the one that wrote that book—Chris McNeil. My dad had a copy.” He didn’t add that he’d read it when he was eight or so and had nightmares for weeks. “The original incident was what, fifty years ago?”

“Yeah, Chris made demonic possession fashionable again and God’s been paying for it ever since.”

Dean drew a breath because it was the perfect time for a snide, _‘I read up on the case—you almost screwed the pooch on that one,’_ but what came out was a strangely plaintive, “You believe in God?”

Marcus looked up, truly shocked. “You don’t?” Sam was watching the exchange with a frown. “How can you do what you do if you don’t believe in God?”

Dean shifted in his seat. “How can _you_? You gotta know that things aren’t good for us, yeah? The murders and wars—it’s all going down the toilet. Would a real god let that happen?”

Marcus forgot his suspicions and certainties that the boys weren’t what they seemed and instead focused on the pain hidden in Dean’s words. If Sam was somewhere in his mid-twenties, Dean was probably thirty and that was much too young to be so cynical. “It’s how it’s always been. We humans have a unique capacity for delivering death and destruction.” He leaned forward. “But we have an infinite and unerringly perfect capacity for love and forgiveness.”

The door’s bell rang and they all looked over—Tomas had just come in.

Tomas’s shoulders were hunched under his leather jacket and his cheeks were rosy from the cold. The leftover power from the exorcism was a buzz that Marcus could practically feel and he added, still tracking Tomas, “That balance, that _love,_ is the glue that holds everything together. It’s why we will continue. It’s why I know God exists.”

The men said nothing but Sam’s eyes were shining.

“Hi,” Tomas said.

Dean and Sam said their hellos while Marcus made room for Tomas. With all the shit that had happened and was _going_ to happen, at least there was this, at least there was Tomas. “How are they?” He raised his hand to the waiter.

Tomas peered into his coffee cup and then set it back down when he realized it was empty. “Good. Scared, but good. Their mother wanted to give us money as thanks but I told her to donate it to the Church.” He hoped she would reconsider the gift—it was a lovely gesture but if her clothes were any indication, she needed it more than the Church did.

“And you? How are you?” Marcus asked, knowing he was giving everything away but unable to help himself.

Tomas offered Marcus a sideways smile. “Good, as well. Better than I’ve been in a while.”

“So he spoke to you, did he?” he said as the waiter slouched over with the carafe. Tomas smiled his thanks. The waiter blinked and then blushed and fumbled, spilling coffee on the table. He mumbled an equally awkward apology and Marcus wanted to assure him, _‘I understand; he still has that effect on me, too.’_

Tomas waited until the waiter was gone before confirming, “I think so, yes. Towards the end. It was…” He broke off and smiled again, this time into his coffee. “It was amazing.”

No one said anything for a moment and Dean locked his lips against more questions. Given the way the night had played out, anything he said next would probably come out as resentful. But seriously, talk about jealousy. He’d give anything to have God talk to him, even if it was just to confirm, _‘Yeah, I’m still here,’_ or better yet, _‘Don’t worry so much—Sam is gonna be okay.’_

“So what now?” Sam asked.

Marcus sighed. “Now, we move on to the next case, if there is one; we’re waiting on our contact.”

“And that is?” Dean asked.

“I can’t tell you,” Marcus answered, not surprised when Dean’s expression hardened. The boy was so touchy. “It’s not because I don’t want to, it’s because it’s safer. There’s been an increase in demonic activ—”

“You don’t say,” Dean interrupted.

“And,” Marcus continued evenly, “I don’t want you two getting caught in the crossfire.”

Sam said, “Maybe we can help.”

“Thank you, but no.”

Dean took a breath, intending to force the issue, but the kid arrived with their food.

Marcus offered Tomas some of his meal. Tomas shook his head, content to watch as the others ate.

He hadn’t lied to Marcus although maybe he’d exaggerated just a hair. Holding the Lindsey’s and Lily’s hands and murmuring, _‘You are loved, you are loved…’_ he’d felt the warmth of a sudden sun. Like a hand pressed against his cheek and heart, it was gone in an instant. But to have even that split second of joy… It made everything worth it, all the doubts that he was on the wrong path, the worry that his feelings for Marcus were tarnishing a soul already in jeopardy…

He made some sound of contentment and Marcus pressed his knee under the table.

***

By non-verbal agreement, as soon as everyone had finished and put cash on the table, they left the diner.

They weren’t friends so there was none of that, _‘Let’s do this again,’_ crap that Dean hated so much. Just a round of handshakes and ‘ _Thank you’s’_. He was following Sam to the Impala when Marcus asked, “Dean? Do you have a moment?”

Sam looked back and Dean jerked his head, telling him to go on to the car. After a moment, Tomas went to the station wagon and got in.

“Can’t bear to let me go?” Dean joked because something was coming and it wasn’t gonna be good.

“Yeah, about that…” It was bitter cold and Marcus shoved his hands in his pockets. “You said you were aware of the increased demonic activity. Have you noticed any patterns or indicators pointing to a single source?”

“You mean like the Devil?”

Marcus shrugged. “Or something closer to home.”

Now was the time to spring the news that demons weren’t the only monsters in God’s pencil box but Dean remembered Sam’s plea and just said, “No, not that I can think of.”

Absently, because the question had been mostly filler, Marcus dug his fists deeper. He shouldn’t ask what he was about to ask, but how could he not? “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been observing your brother all day.”

“And?” Dean looked over his shoulder. Sam was turned away, his cell pressed to his ear. Probably calling Ruby again, and familiar resentment bloomed and sharpened.

“And you do know something is very wrong with him, yes?”

“You just met him,” Dean growled, attention all on Marcus now. He took a step forward. “How can you possibly kn—”

Instinctively preparing for a fight, Marcus met Dean’s challenge with his own, “Because it’s what I _do._ I look for weakness, disturbances… There’s something about your brother.” He scrubbed at his hair. “At first I thought it was drugs because he has that look, but it’s something else and I can’t qui—”

“He’s fine,” Dean interrupted. “Sammy’s fine.”

Marcus tipped his head. “And then there’s that,” he murmured slowly. “Do you really think adding sex to the volatile cocktail that seems to be your life is wise?”

Before he knew it, Dean had his fists curled in Marcus’s jacket. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Marcus covered Dean’s hands with his own. “Yeah, I do. I know too well, and by your response, you do too. Your anger is a mask for shame and that alone should be your barometer. Can you really help him if you’re not really helping him?”

Dean gulped a breath and then another, the fucked up weeks piling up, clogging his throat and head. He glanced over at the car again—Sam was no longer on the phone but was watching, hands on the hood as if he was ready to vault over. And somehow that cooled Dean’s anger and he was able to let go. “I appreciate your concern,” he made himself say. “But we’re fine.”

“And if you’re not?”

“Then I’ll take care of it like I always do.”

The wealth of meaning behind those few words made Marcus’s chest ache. “I’d offer to be a sounding board but I know you won’t take me up on it.”

“Once a priest, always a priest, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Then, thank you for your help. I’m not sure what we would have done if you hadn’t come along.”

After a moment Dean nodded. He was turning away when Marcus called him back with another soft, “Dean?”

Dean stilled but didn’t turn around. “So help me God, if you’re gonna—”

“No, I’m done with that,” Marcus said to Dean’s back. “But, whether you believe in him or not, God exists and you are his creation; that holds a certain grace. And, contrary to what I just said, I don’t follow all the Church’s teachings and strictures on sexual relations. There are some that are and should be verboten, but I meant what I said back there: love is the balance. It always will be.”

“Is that all?”

“No. If either of you come across a woman from Chicago named Maria Walters, run like hell.”

The hair on the back of Dean’s neck stood on end, but he just muttered, “Whatever” and strode away.

***

“What happened back there?” Tomas said. Coffee or no, the car was warm and cozy and his eyes kept closing as sleep tugged.

“Nothing,” Marcus said. It had begun to snow once more; as soon as they reached a proper town, he’d find a motel. He was tired, Tomas was tired, and it would be okay to splurge again.

“Did you ask Dean about any other possessions? I meant to, but forgot.”

“I did. He didn’t know anything.”

“You didn’t seem to be having a very friendly conversation.”

“We seemingly did not.” Tomas’s arms were wrapped around his chest so Marcus turned the heat up. “What are you not saying, Tomas?”

“You didn’t mention his relationship with his brother, did you?”

Marcus turned his head. “You knew?”

“It was hard to miss.” Tomas sighed. Marcus truly _was_ like a dog with a bone; any other person would have been more reticent. “And none of your business.”

There were so many answers he could give but only managed, “It doesn’t bother you?”

Tomas thought about that, thought about how to say what had been simmering inside his heart and soul for weeks now. “I think the Rance case made me into two people, Marcus. There is the before Tomas and the after Tomas.”

“And what would the before Tomas say?”

“That it is a sin and both men are going to hell.”

“And the after Tomas?”

Tomas shrugged. “He is less sure. He is tired and concerned that world-changing events are coming and it might be impossible to stop them. And he is having a hard time worrying about something that might not be a bad thing.”

“Now more than ever it’s important to stay focused, to stay true, Tomas.”

“It’s just as important to stay objective.”

“Meaning?”

Tomas shifted about, making himself more comfortable. “Meaning that if God didn’t want them to be who they are, he would have stopped them long ago. Meaning it gives me comfort knowing we’re not the only ones fighting this evil.” He closed his eyes. “They did save that girl in Fairfax. Who knows how many others?”

“That’s a quibble, Tomas.”

“Yes, it is. Marcus?”

“Yes?”

“I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?” Marcus answered, his heart giving a great thump. It was going to happen—he hadn’t missed Tomas’s long glances and little touches immediately after the exorcism. Which meant Tomas was going to ask and he was going to have to answer.

“I had an epiphany this evening.”

“Tell me.” His heart was now in his throat and he suddenly wasn’t sure what his reply would be: the expected, ‘ _No, Tomas’_ or the insanely foolish, ‘ _Yes, Tomas.’_

“About my dream… I realized something.”

“Oh,” was all Marcus managed as he gripped the wheel. It was the cold night that chilled his cheeks and not disappointment.

“Yes.” Tomas turned so he was facing Marcus. “I told you I dreamed of Lucifer rising from the pit, yes?”

Marcus nodded, still not trusting his own voice.

Tomas shivered. The dream was coming back full force, as was the vision from earlier. “Only, the last few times, it hasn’t been Lucifer. The last few times it has been a very tall man with a very deep voice.”

Under control now, Marcus frowned. “You’re not saying…” He glanced at Tomas. “What _are_ you saying?”

“It was Sam. I’ve been dreaming of Sam rising from Hell.”

Once again and for a completely different reason, a slick chill skated across Marcus’s cheeks to the back of his neck. “You don’t actually think Sam is the Devil, do you?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean I’m not worried.”

“Dreams are sometimes just dreams, Tomas.”

“So you don’t think there is any reason to be concerned?”

“No, I don’t.” It wasn’t quite true, because it _was_ odd, but before he could say anything else, his mobile rang. He dug it out of his pocket and gave it Tomas. “Who is it?”

Tomas opened the phone. “It’s a text from Bennett.”

“And?”

“And, he says he might have a case near Billings. He’ll let us know as soon as he has more information. Do you want me to respond?”

“Yeah. Tell him we’re on our way. Don’t give out our current location.” Marcus waited while Tomas replied, his fingers moving rapidly, the blue glow of the tiny screen illuminating his lovely profile.

When Tomas was done, he handed the cell back to Marcus. Marcus’s fingers were warm and he cleared his throat. “We’ll have to give the case in Wyoming a pass.”

“Maybe not, if Montana is a bust like all the others.”

“Do you want to drive straight through?”

Marcus didn’t. He wanted to process it all, he wanted to pray to see if God was in a chatty mood. Mostly he wanted to be with Tomas in some still place and just _be._ But this was the life and so he tucked the mobile away and said evenly, “Sure. Can you get the map?”

***

“We forgot the water,” Sam said absently. The snow was coming down again and the white whirls and swirls were mesmerizing.

“We’ll make do.”

“It would have been interesting to see if water blessed by a priest that had just talked to God is more powerful than the other stuff.”

“Holy water is holy water, Sam.”

Sam turned. “What happened back there? Are you okay?”

Dean peered into the mass of snow. He needed to spring for some new wipers—a thin sheet of ice was forming where the heater couldn’t reach. “What d’you mean?”

“Dean.”

“It was nothing.”

“He asked about us, didn’t he?”

“He asked about _you.”_ But that wasn’t fair and after a moment, he admitted, “Yeah, he did.”

“Did he want us to go to confession?”

“He didn’t mention it.”

No, Marcus had just said that Sam was being fucked over and it was all thanks of yours truly. Not a new accusation because when it had all started, on the road and lonely when Sam wasn’t around, Dean had tossed the same every time he looked in the mirror. When that hadn’t worked, he’d rehearsed the reasons why not. To himself, to Sam one dark night when Sam had gotten drunk on cheap whiskey and had urged, _‘Please,’_ his voice breathy deep. Dean had said no and he’d held on until Dad died. The last barrier gone, he’d taken what Sam had offered. He couldn’t say it was always a joy, but it was as close as he was gonna get. “He also asked if we’d noticed any patterns to the possessions we’ve witnessed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know but it doesn’t sound good. If there’s someone higher up than Lucifer or Crowley or whoever’s running this thing, we’re screwed. Have you ever heard of a woman named Maria Walters?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

Sam leaned against the window. Generally after a hunt he was either revved up or exhausted. Now, he was in an odd state between the two, both jazzed and tired. If things weren’t the way they were, he’d get Dean to park and they could work it out through sex. “I called Bobby. He says he might have something, a comic book store that’s haunted.”

“A comic book store?” Dean said. “Like Little Lulu’s throwin’ it down?”

“That or Richie Rich,” Sam replied.

“Richie Rich,” Dean muttered. “What an douche.”

Sam frowned. And then he began to laugh until he was short of breath and bent over.

“You okay?”

For whatever reason, that only made him laugh more until his chest hurt and his stomach ached. “Yeah,” he was finally able to say. “Yeah, Richie Rich _is_ a douche and I’m fine and Dean…” He scrubbed the damp from his eyes. “Screw Marcus and whatever he said to you. He doesn’t know the truth and that’s okay.”

Dean gripped the wheel, unable to say, _‘What’s the truth, Sammy? That we’re each other’s hell, each other’s salvation?’_ He was still standing on one side of the Ruby divide, Sam on the other. So he turned up the music and said, “Yeah, okay.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I know you said that—” Sam gestured, taking in the car, the space between them. “We said we’d take a break but this won’t hurt, right?” And then he did something he hadn’t done in a long time, not since he’d grown a half a foot in a year and told Dean and Dad that he wasn’t a kid anymore and they needed to respect that. He lay down, his legs scrunched up, his head resting on Dean’s thigh. “Just this, okay?”

Dean cleared his throat; the urge to cup Sam’s cheek was like a stone in his chest. “Yeah, okay, but just that.”

“Okay,” Sam said and closed his eyes. The whine of the tires on the road, the sound of the passing cars, and Dean, right where he should be. The thirst was growing but even so, it had been a while since he felt so content. “It’ll be okay,” he added, his hand a loose fist. “You’ll see.”

Sam’s breath slowed into deep sleep and Dean swallowed. Nothing was resolved. He was still fucked up, Sam was still fucked up and he was gonna have to do something about both pretty damn soon. But not now, not tonight, and it was maybe ten minutes later before he gave in and began to cautiously comb the thick strands of Sam’s hair back from his forehead.

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Crossovers don't generally work for me but I wanted to give this a go as there are a few elements from each show that seemed to blend. I messed around with the episode timing—the Supernatural bits are set in season 4 while The Exorcist bits are set between season 1 and 2. There is such a place as the Halo Diner and I pushed the envelope on the national popularity of sweet potato fries.
> 
> The translations are: "No finjas que no quieres esto"—rough translation: "Don’t pretend you don’t want this." The other is The Lord's Prayer in Spanish. 
> 
> This unbeta'd story is my first attempt at an omniscient POV—I'll doubt I'll try it again as it's crazy hard.
> 
> The title is from a quote by Octavio Paz that I really love: "If we are a metaphor of the universe, the human couple is the metaphor par excellence, the point of intersection of all forces and the seed of all forms."


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